


pandirigma

by lunkai



Series: ay irog ko [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: F/M, happy all hearts day it's overdue because i scrapped the first draft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunkai/pseuds/lunkai
Summary: You invite Peter over to your dimension to handle your unwanted guests.





	pandirigma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to thank you all for showering my last noir/reader fic in comments that made me screech in joy. to HilarytheMermaid, i got you covered. this one's for you

You like to surprise him, even if his Spider-Sense always tips him off to your presence. You have grown to prefer saying hello rather than letting your portable Collider rip a hole in the fabric of the universe.

You just like to surprise him. _Only_ him.

He feels you even before you leap up and crawl through his window. When you come in like a bright red beacon against the monochrome tones of his dimension, he's already anticipating you.

Tonight you have only your sandata at your hip, and your woven mask on your face. You are a warrior first of all, and the way you rise from your crouch and move toward him won't let him forget it anytime soon.

It is not as though he needs a reminder. He has seen you fight countless times.

 _(It is_ very _attractive.)_

There is an undertone of something wrong, even through his excitement. His Spider-Sense (and his detective's intuition) tells him there is something amiss: he doesn't hear the quiet tinkling of the beads in your hair - the strings of multicolored beads that trail from the bun at the back of your head down to your chest. He can't see your earrings - engraved miniature gongs - glinting in the scarce light of the evening. You're not wearing any of your bangles or anklets either.

You unmask before you even reach him, and the look on your face disarms him  _and_ his suspicions. You are always so happy to see him, _so_ happy, that he almost completely forgets his heavy burdens. He can see affection in every inch of your face.

He, too, unmasks, spurred on by you, and takes you into his arms for a kiss. It is just a simple press of lips, but it makes the warmth spiral into fireworks. He loves you, he loves you so much, so _much_ , he loves you _so much_.

Your arms - made strong by your training and hunting, even stronger by the spider that nearly killed you - reach around him to pull him close. Your laugh is muffled between your joined lips. Everything about you just makes him feel so... so... 

You both break eventually for air, but you cannot bear to be away for long. You kiss him again, open-mouthed. He accepts you, eagerly so. This new kiss curls his toes, burns him more than playing with fire ever did. It burns all over in the _best_ way. He could keep you here for hours, in his bed, forever, if he could.

At length, you break away, laughing softly. "I missed you."

He echoes the sentiment, but cannot speak it out loud. His lips are occupied with kissing all over your lovely face. He knows something is amiss, but he cannot stop himself. He leaves kisses on your cheeks, on your chin, on the tip of your nose; you stroke his back, allowing him to do with you as he pleases until he has run out of space to kiss. Your collar stops him just before he can reach past the base of your neck. Once he has stopped, you place your hand on his cheek, to dissuade him further.

"Mahal ko, come with me to my home."

His heart stops.

You can tell he's caught off guard by your words, and you remember that conversation on the couch just as well as he does.

_(- He thinks of marriage. He thinks of your children. He thinks of living somewhere else than this abyss of pain and terror. He thinks of living with you forever and ever and ever and ever for a split moment, but it's enough. -)_

You take his face in your hands. "My... _unwanted guests_... have taken things without permission. My warriors and I, we fought them off, our number has been reduced to half. If I fight against the Portuguese with the warriors I have left, I will be leaving my people defenseless."

He returns to himself, the lovestruck falling away to reveal the sharpness in his eyes. He pulls away from your grasp, thinking,  _Ah. So_ that's _why._

For a moment, you fear that you have offended him somehow, but the way he says, "This a date, darling?" you can hear only a determined grit to his tone.

 _(He would do anything for you._ Anything _._

 

 

_Barring, of course, marrying you and living in your dimension permanently.)_

"Call it what you like, I don't mind. Will you join me?"

"Been meaning to get some fresh air," he says, collecting his hat from his desk.

"If fresh air is what you wish, then I think you will enjoy yourself _immensely_."

 

* * *

 

Your portable Collider, gifted to you by some slick Abercrombie from the distant future, drops the both of you in the middle of a jungle.

Once the bright lights and roaring subside, three men jump from the thick green, and quick as a coiled viper, Peter strikes out to land a hit on the one that looks the most murderous - unsurprisingly, the head of the pack.

\- And just as quickly, you get in between him and Peter. 

Your hand deflects the business end of the warrior's spear away from you as your other hand closes around Peter's gloved fist, and the stunned stillness lasts for a moment before the three spearmen cry out your title. Peter blinks in surprise - but nobody can see it through his mask and his goggles. You shout something at the three in your native tongue, and they _listen_. The tips of their spears drop, albeit reluctantly. Slowly.

You address the three men - three _warriors,_ Peter realizes. They're not wearing your costume exactly, but the colors and designs speak it loud and clear: these are _your_ spearmen. As you speak, your head tilts to him, and back again to them. It seems you're _introducing_ him.

He wonders what you're saying. He hasn't mastered your language yet - especially in understanding sentences longer than three words.

Once you finish talking to the trio, you turn back to him. "These are my most trusted men, Peter," you explain.

Your hand retreats from his fist _(empty, he feels empty for some odd reason)_ and the neck of the other's spear. You turn your head and address the man who nearly stabbed Peter in the chest. This leader gives Peter a stinkeye as you have a private chat. Judging by your harsh, hushed chatter, their leader _also_ seems to have a second opinion about this whole ordeal, but _you_ are the real leader here.

Whatever qualms he has, you silence him with a single word, and without further ceremony all of them take up their spears and return into the dark of the forest.

You stare after them for a while.

He's not jealous, but time is of the essence. It _always_ is, with these cross-dimensional encounters. "Doesn't seem like he agrees with me being here."

You snort. "Makisig just doesn't like how I enjoy fighting people off all on my own." You turn away, walking over to one of the larger trees surrounding the space. He follows you. "Our fight is not here. We must make it to the shore."

"The sea?"

"Just the beach. The Portuguese are moored a ways away from here."

Kneeling, you dig under a rock - and what Peter thought was a large rock was actually a cleverly-concealed blanket. It clicks now: You aren't wearing your usual jewelry because it's a _stealth_ mission. But, you wear the colors of your tribe still - wild patterns of red, yellow, and black.

_To send a message._

You reach under the blanket, asking, "Do you still have the agimat I gave you?"

He lifts up one side of his coat to show a piece of wood in the shape of an oval sewn into the inside. It has odd little symbols and letters carved into it, ones he's never seen before except on your belongings. When he sets his coat back over himself, it rests right over his heart. You gave all of the Spider-Gang their own charms like this, told them it would protect them.

 

 

He hasn't been hit by bullets in a very long time.

 

 

Upon seeing it, you breathe, "Good." You produce something from inside. It is a piece of rock, another charm, this time in the shape of a spearhead. "I made this for your gun. I have used this many times with my bow and I _always_ strike true. But, only if I am shooting in the right direction." You pause from your speech. "You brought your gun, yes?"

He unholsters it and shows it to you.

You heave a sigh of relief. "Good."

Then you produce a shield for yourself, and - surprisingly - one for him.

He tries to decline, but you insist upon it. "They are armed with guns. Not like yours, but that's why it is worse. They are, as Peni says, 'low-tech.' Many of my people die suffering because of them. Sometimes, screaming for days on end." You both could always count on your Spider-Senses warning you of enemy attacks, but you wouldn't risk his life on it. "What did they say again? 'Better safe than sorry'?"

Begrudgingly, he takes the shield. It's large, perhaps, for one of your own, but it only comes down to his knees and if he ducks enough he could probably fit the middle of his upper body into the safe zone.

It will have to do.

"It's the biggest one we have," you say, sheepish. "I will get you a new one."

 

 

_(The thought warms him more than it should.)_

 

* * *

 

He hasn't been to the beach - or a lake - in years. He remembers that it was when his Uncle Ben was still around.

_(He doesn't need to delve into that right now,)_

The trees thin as you hear the lapping of waves. You'd made sure to get as close to the beach as possible, knowing full well that the Collider made far too much ruckus no matter how far away you summoned it.

Under the quiet rush of the sea, he hears people. He sees fires past the edge of the forest.

You've reached a settlement. 

But it's odd. There are no huts on this beach, nothing like he's seen in pictures and museum exhibits: instead, they're on _stilts_. Bridges stretch from the sand into the water - far out, where the water is presumably deeper than a person might be tall - connecting the houses to one another. From what he can see, your colors and the colors of the few men and women walking about aren't the same.

With your mask over your face, you murmur beside him, "The ocean-faring tribes are accosted frequently by the new arrivals. Their number has been dwindling, as a result."

Now that he looks closer, there are significantly more men than there are women. No children running around, though it might be that they have gone to sleep.

_(He shudders to think of alternatives.)_

"They are not my tribe, but I have come to an agreement with their Datu. I will drive the Spanish and others like the Portuguese away, and the sea-tribe can bring back their women and children from the forests."

You step out of the cover of the trees, and make your way towards the barangay, with Peter trailing after you, three steps behind.

This isn't your tribe, but it is still so fascinating. Peter has learned to accept the fantastic as well as the mundane, thanks to his adventures with you and the rest of the Spider-Gang, but this is something else entirely. He's _living_  history. In his universe, your home is but stamps of letters across newspaper pages. It is so humbling, then, that he must see what you are like, what your country _was_ like.

He feels his heart grow fonder for you, and this place. If he'd had any second thoughts on helping you tonight, they would have been gone by now.

"Don't see any big ships nearby," Peter starts.

"It's just past there," you gesture to your right, to where a rock formation hides the rest of the beach from view. "First we must ask the Datu for his blessing before our battle." 

From a distance, some of the tribesmen have spotted you. They are dressed in the colors of the sea-tribe - blue and bits of red. They have lit torches, and in the fluctuating light, he can see their faces, battle-worn and weather-lined.

He asks, "Why?"

_Why waste time paying visits when you can simply fix the problem and come back later?_

"We must tell them that their agony is at its end."

You do not stop your approach. Peter follows after you, teeth gritted. Three steps behind is the custom, just like you told him early on in your days of knowing each other. His Spider-Sense doesn't alert him to anything like a surprise attack. It only feels like mild anxiety.

It is a few more paces before you stop and stand a fair distance away from the edge of their settlement, and call out to them. Peter is mindful to keep behind three steps. Your sword is at your hip and your shield is at your side, so he keeps his shield at his side too.

The men, holding flaming torches, respond by calling you by title, and then your name.

You remove your mask.

They send one of their own into the little village.

"Come," you say. "They're sending word that we've arrived."

As you continue your approach, the men stare after him with wide eyes. They have never seen anyone quite like your Peter: large, imposing. The color of the moonless night. The wind follows him, whipping at his coat. The warriors do not bar him from entering in time. As you two pass into the sea tribe's territory, all eyes turn to you, the Datu of the neighboring forest, and him, a strange interloper whom no one can identify.

"Looks like you're famous, doll."

"No more than you, Peter."

 

_(You cannot call him 'mahal ko' with all these ears and eyes around you; if word got out your council would never let you hear the end of it)_

 

Peter notices the cloths, stained suspicious amounts of red, like paint, wrapped around heads and torsos and limbs and the occasional stump.

The farther you go, the more eyes seem to follow you. Your feet leave the beach and you step on the network of bridges that stretch and wind all the way until you reach the center of the sea-tribe's dwelling - the Datu's house.  All thoughts concerning the tribesmen leave his mind as he comes face to face with the tribe's head honcho.

In the event that they turn on you, you're more than enough to take them on. Together. 

The Datu is sitting on the steps leading to his house.

As you come nearer, Peter can see that his side is wrapped with a cloth. At first he mistakes it for a cloth completely soaked with days-old blood, but he realizes it's just another red cloth wrapped around one's torso.

Peter looks him over from the safety of his mask: Old, grayed, sun-browned. Lean but strong. He exudes as much of the same air as you. He is dressed in blue and red, with a scarf tied around his graying head. He dresses a bit like you, really. It's the jewelry.

The Datu of the sea-tribe meets your gaze first, and then it moves to Peter.

He somehow feels more scrutiny than when he was subject to the gaze of the tribesmen.

Only your quiet "Come on," snaps him out of it enough to go forward.

You begin speaking in your tongue again, speaking to the Datu, and anyone who wishes to hear. It's a speech of some sort. He can only make out a couple words: _come back... ask... fight... intruders...,_ from there he pays little attention to the words and focuses on you - how your voice carries from here to perhaps even the edges of the territory, how you hold yourself as the leader and warrior of your people.

 _(- Oh, the cloth really_ is _just a cloth stained with dried blood. -)_

Even though he cannot see you from his spot behind you, he rather likes this. It isn't that he dislikes that you get so soft around him, but this side of you is incredibly sexy.

Maybe he should come here more often. It's only fair.

 

He's realized that you've stopped talking.

 

He waits. 

Everyone waits.

Even _you_ wait.

 

Peter hears it then: the soft cooing of a little baby.

He tries not to look to the source, because you are keeping still as a statue.

When he speaks, the old man's voice isn't reedy at all. It rings with authority. _Power_. Peter can't understand him the way he does you - this must be some kind of dialect - but there is no mistaking his strength. Peter hears a short sentence in your shared tongue, spoken measuredly: _"You may go."_

 

* * *

 

The men hold their torches aloft and lead you from the Datu's house, back to the sand. It looks like some odd ritual procession. You in front, the first two behind you, flanking Peter, and another two behind him. The tribesmen had given you your own torch, and the men keep their customary three steps behind.

All eyes follow you silently, as you leave the sea tribe's dwelling.

_(He is dying to be beside you, hold your hand, say something.)_

You hand your torch back to them. The men had neglected to hand Peter one.

You won't need it where you're going.

You separate from the men before you can stray too far from the edges of the territory, and continue onward from there.

"They couldn't move the Datu's wife. They had to stay," you say quietly, once you're within a couple yards to the rocks. "The wife and her attendants had to stay and take care of her. She's well enough now, but not well enough to run.

"That baby you heard? That was the baby she almost _died_ to have." 

 

* * *

 

Climbing up and over the rock formation isn't hard when you have Spider-powers.

The green trees growing along its top hide you from sight, as you perch among the branches of a tree with a view of the beach.

Down below, the Portuguese are celebrating their haul of wood, among other things that might already be down in the ship's hold.

"They haven't loaded the wood onto the ship yet," you whisper. You can see the stolen goods laying some ways away from the camp, already chopped into manageable bundles. You can smell the smoke from their bonfires, and it smells just like the smoke that rises from the cook fires of your home. It makes your lips pull back into a snarl.

"Ready?" you growl, putting your mask back onto your face.

 

_(For you? Always.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are an expert on precolonial Philippines, please, hit me up, im begging you, give me your knowledge i'm getting by only on a single history textbook from college i nEED YOU


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